


Crimson and Green

by WahlBuilder



Series: Colour Theory [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 20:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15032819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Henry doesn't have a lot of visitors in his shop. But in the early days of the shop, someone very special comes in.





	Crimson and Green

**Author's Note:**

> More accurately, pre-game.

The curio shop didn’t get many visitors. It wasn’t supposed to bring money anyway, and being located where it was, it was a good front for Henry’s scouting activities. Sometimes there were visitors, however, even in Whitechapel.

There was an old gentleman, his dress not really in the latest fashion but his linen always spotless; he came every other week looking for curious rocks. He didn’t not care about them being precious or otherwise marketable in the conventional sense—he simple hunted for an interesting shape: a drop-like hole, a notch like a cross. Even when Henry couldn’t offer him anything of note, he would bring a box of pastries.

There was a lady, a baron’s widow as she had told Henry right during her first visit, cheerful and bright in every sense, dyed lace always standing up against the darkness of her skin, her slim fingers clad in green or purple or red. She was a great collector of Early London coins and told stories of ancient kings and prætors and vicarii. She never took a cab to Whitechapel and never feared the dark streets.

Henry had half a dozen regular visitors like that, eccentric and colourful as London herself, seeking company more than they were seeking things. He liked listening to their stories, making tea for them in the dusty darkness of the shop. During his walks through the city he visited other shops and peddlers, looking out for trinkets that his patrons were after. He didn’t feel out of place near them.

Besides them there were odd visitors, some come out of boredom or curiosity, some seemingly no even knowing why they pushed the door open. He let them look around and answered their questions, and sometimes they even purchased a thing or two, left, and never returned.

There were the gangsters, of course, from different gangs, at least at first, before the Blighters had absorbed or driven away everyone else. Like everyone else, Henry payed his fee for protection, first to one gang, then another, then to the Blighters. They were more effective than the police at keeping his shop from being burgled. The only policeman he saw semi-regularly was Freddie Abberline. Every few weeks they exchanged rumours over tea and the curious-rock gentleman’s pastries.

When he felt a presence in the shop, he hastened towards the front, worried by the fact that the bell over the door hadn’t rung.

The man was looking about the shop, seemingly heedless of Henry watching him, but Henry had a thought that he was allowed to observe.

Against the bright backdrop of the window the man’s profile was clearly outline. It was a handsome face, handsome in that sharp, intense hunter-like handsomeness Henry admired in Ethan, the type of handsomeness that would attract attention in certain places in the city. He was dressed finely, like a gentleman, his coat of warm-brown wool, his cufflinks simple golden hemispheres. A curious tie pin shaped like a cat’s paw print, golden, too. His tie a worrying shade of red, crimson red, like blood.

There was something… unlikely about him, something worrisome that Henry couldn’t quite place. Something deliberate, the way his gloved hands moved over the handles of the glass cases, the way he kept himself in the confines of the shop. The gold earring.

There was a shadow inclined near the shop. A guard, perhaps?

The man shook himself, as though only now noticing Henry’s scrutiny. ‘Ah. Mr. Green, I presume?’ He turned to Henry. There was a scar running down the right side of his face, from temple to chin, jagged and stark against the paleness of his face, uneven. Not a cut, but something more, angry-red and with dents where it had been stitched. Maybe a few months’ old.

A new gang boss? Henry reached for the club under the counter, stroking the wood, and smiled, ‘Yes. It is I.’

The man smiled, a charming smile that made Henry think of cats and claws. ‘Forgive me. I’ve been rather busy lately and couldn’t come greet you myself.’ He had a rough voice in contrast to a very broad spectrum of intonations, sounding as though he had been ill recently or inhaled smoke that had scraped his throat raw.

Henry kept an answering smile. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘No?’ The man put his elbows on the counter and leaned to Henry, and Henry saw that his eyes were green. ‘You shouldn’t worry that club of yours. Not your kind of weapon anyway, isn’t it.’

At that moment Henry had a stab of sadness at the thought that the shop would be inevitably ruined by the struggles. So strange that thought felt afterwards. If he had been wanted dead by that particular man, he wouldn’t have been intimidated and the shop wouldn’t have been ruined. He wouldn’t have been treated to a talk.

But just then, he didn’t know that.

‘And you don’t have to worry,’ the man continued, ‘about your partner not receiving any more letters from you.’

Henry’s head was aching with cold. They had found hi—

The man pushed himself away from the counter, something warm entering his eyes, softening his sharp face. ‘I know who you are, Henry—or should I say Bharat? I know _what_ you are, but pray don’t take it as a threat. _I_ know— _they_ don’t.’

Henry, in his frozen mind, was getting to the identity of this man— but it was impossible, should have been impossible. Henry would have never imagined their first meeting like that.

The only name out of hundreds in Ethan’s papers that didn’t belong to the Templar Order.

‘How can you expect me,’ Henry heard himself say, his fingers cramped on the club, ‘not to take it as a threat?’

The man—one of the most dangerous people in the whole city, in the whole country—spread his arms. His gestures, his bearing were all wide, exaggerated. Like a performance. ‘I cannot promise it would be easy: an outright protection would draw unnecessary attention to you. But I will aid you in your endeavours however I can.’

Henry felt as though he’d been hit with his own club. He imagined writing about this to his mentor.

_Dear Ethan,_

_Today I was visited by—_

‘Why?’ Henry asked, because it seemed like a logical thing to do.

The smile dropped from the green eyes. ‘Because I hate the Templars, my boy.’

_—by the most unlikely potential ally._

That smile returned, and now there was a glint of teeth. Cat-like. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I drop by from time to time, Mr. Green? I do so need unusual things for performances at the Alhambra.’

Henry tore his fingers away from the club and said, the cold in his head slowly melting away, ‘I look forward to it. Mr. Roth.’


End file.
